Beyond
by Alga
Summary: My take at what could very well happen after the end we’ve seen in this wonderful film, “The Princess Bride”. Based on the film.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: not mine (ah, pity…)

**Author's note**: My take at what could very well happen after the end we've seen in this wonderful film, "The Princess Bride". Based on the film.

**Beyond**

**Prologue**

I've never been one for the proverbial happily ever after. I mean, alright, it's nice… sometimes. But ever since I were a little girl, whenever there was the last page of any storybook turned, or the credits started to flash on the screen, I could not help wondering: when they ride into sunset, or get married, or whatever in fairytales, what comes _after _the happily ever after part?

- Whatever you mean, _after_? Dear me, Susan, I swear, one more year in that college of yours, and this girl I am talking to right now will pronounce Santa Clause dead!

Right. That would be my Grandpa, visiting us cause it's rare chance to get his lil' princess of a great-granddaughter home, in person – gotta keep up the pace, the world's not getting any larger, what with the Internet and all… And I _do _like the man, he's made my childhood days worth remembering, but as for Santa – good riddance, I'd say. The Tooth Fairy went belly up in my third grade, when a pretty nasty case of deep caries left the pig-tailed girl that was me one fairy-tale being to believe in short. Then, again, when you're talking to a nice old man like my Gramps, you just _can't _hurt his feelings and live another day without your own shitty college conscience keeping you up through long sleepless nights, in utter shame, even if you honestly believe in parents buying presents, not some Mr. Kringle in a red suit dropping them all the way down the chimney. Oh, please don't look at me like that! What's a girl to do…

- Sorry. Didn't mean it like that, Gramps.

Shoulders of the old dude go relaxed. Man, one of this days I'm gonna hit the roof and fly right through it. Santa Clause! And worse, there's this family fave for the sick times – _The Princess Bride_. Honestly, _princess_? For all I know, this Buttercup girl never actually became one because her heart always stayed Westley-given. Besides, the prince, however un-charming – albeit he seemed very much charming to me, in his own political way, but then, as long as I could remember, I've never been a girl with a taste for Westley-type boys – anyway, Humperdinck never got a chance to properly ring her, this hurried farce of a wedding not counted. I never stopped thinking about Inigo too, that poor Monte Cristo-type man, living for the sole purpose of revenge … did he accept Westley's offer to have something else to live for, when his first purpose was over and done with? If not, what did he make of his life after this THE END line? More importantly, did he _make it_ at all, wounded so badly? As a rational child, I kept thinking that the epoch they lived in was not very much into antibiotics and advanced methods of surgery… And this whole Dread Pirate Roberts thing, whatever happened to the legend, whether Inigo Montoya chose to keep it up or not? Somehow, I smelled a rat there… And what about Fezzik? What did he get as his own version of "after happily ever after"? And Buttercup's parents, for surely she had some, whatever happened to them? Specifically, why weren't they in the story at all? And all those thieves that got dislodged just because there was a rotten time for underworld dwellers – prison, and then what? And the whole kingdom of Florin – whatever happened to its grassy pastures and good people that did not live in any forests, but paid their taxes as all dutiful subjects should? Any wars with the good kingdom of Guilder there? What was it like for my favorite Prince Uncharming, I wonder? And what was life of one very miraculous outcast of the court, Miracle Max, like? And what about his wife Valerie? Questions, a thousand of them, and not a single slimy answer…

- Oh, Robert, let her be, will you? Susan has tough time in Harvard as it is, what with all the studying and part-time job of hers, let her _not_ believe in whatever the girl pleases.

- Thanks Grandma.

- Any time dear, anytime. – She smiles at me from her tea cup at the kitchen counter. My beloved great-grandmother Andrea. Remarkable woman! One more sip of the tea. Then, dismissively, about Gramps seeking refuge behind an all of a sudden fascinating fresh copy of _The New York Times._ – Men of this family, of all things, Susan! They keep the tradition, but rarely ask themselves _why_, not that I want to blame them… often.

I only grin back. Sometime during this visit, I'll drag her aside and we shall talk. Not _talk_ talk, but you never know… Somehow, I always had this half-told, half-whispered feeling under my skin about whenever Grandpa read that princess-that-was-not-really-princess story to me, and she just hovered there in the background sometimes, frowning here, smiling there ever so slightly, but never interfering… as if she knew perfectly well there was more to the story… but loved Gramps too much to hurt his sense of sacred knowing by her extras. Funny, I wanted to ask her so much about it all, but never got to. Well, here's my chance to rectify this. Probably today. Grandpa grunts and announces a chess match with my dad to start any minute, than folds his shield of a newspaper neatly and backs away into the lounge. Guess it's my chance…

- Um, Grandma?

- Yes, Susan. – She smiles reassuringly. Gosh, I want to have this soft confidence in myself when I am her age. – What is it, darling?

- Um, nothing, really.

One eyebrow goes up.

- O.K., not exactly nothing… Say, how about a walk up the street to this cute little café on the corner we liked to hang out at when I was still at school here, huh? Mom's not home till dinner, and I bet Gramps will make sure dad is busy defending his little army, hard.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: in prologue

**Beyond**

**Chapter 1**

And just _who _told you that dragging the truth out of your own great-grandmothers was a piece of cake? Liars… We had ventured two slices each, and that was it – I kept on chewing.

- Susan?

- Mhm?

What am I to do, what to _do_, what to do?!

- Child, what did you want to talk about?

I take another bite, as casually as my college drama club skills let me.

- Grandma, does a dutiful granddaughter need an excuse to spend time with her Granny these days?

- No, I think… – She chuckles. – But something is telling me you must've been pretty upset.

- Why so? – Damn, need to work on my acting skills!

- I don't know… – Another chuckle. – Probably because you were so distraught that you did not pay attention to where we were going whatsoever. This place, my darling, is no _Cream Sugar_.

- What?! But… But the curtains, the napkins! It must be…

It isn't. I grab the napkin holder, and sure as hell, there are two words printed on each blasted piece of paper in sickly cute pink color – _Sweet Dreams_. True, the place is a café alright, but as for the words on cups & plates, and no doubt the windows, to say nothing about napkins…

I get a caring, warm patronizing glance and let the napkins be. Damn, damn, damn!

- Susan, you fell in love again? Tell me.

- Gosh, no! What made you think I did?

Another grandmotherly glance, this time with a pet on the shoulder. Gotta stop that…

- Um, no. You see, I am stuck with a big fat nobody for a boyfriend, Gran. Homework and the Pilates job eat all my time in Harvard.

- Then why?...

I grab her hands. Here goes nothing.

- Because of _The Princess Bride_!

No volcano erupts, if you don't count a pesky high-schooler of a waitress in matching pink apron asking me _to please tune it down _an eruption. Granny tells her to sod off with a charming grin and a tip. When the pink apron is out of ear-shot, Grandma motions for her handbag.

- I though you'd never ask, Susan, and I'll be leaving this with a lawyer to deliver to you and _not_ your father along with my will when the time comes.

A manuscript? What the – …

- Careful, it is as old as it looks.

I skim through the faded pages. Latin.

- Is it…

- Yes. Any questions so far?

- You kidding, right? Gran, this is… – I take a quick look around. Everyone's busy with their ice-creams. – This is simply wow! If the thing is real… Wait. Why didn't you want dad to inherit it? Why me?

- Because he is a man, darling. And you heard what I think about men of our family.

I nod. Gees, a missing _after _happily ever after! I may not be a genius with classic languages, but even so…

- Gran, do you always carry it around?

- I do. Wouldn't want your Grandpa to find it, won't we? And he'll never dig into my handbag unless forced to. As for my medicine – that's in the pendant I'm wearing, and he knows it very well.

I read.


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **see in prologue.

**Author's note:** forsitan means maybe in Latin

**Chapter 2**

…One more milkshake and another slice of pastry later I moved no further than the second paragraph.

- How is it, Susan?

- Well, so far… Grandma, I wish I had our Latin professor or a dictionary here with me.

- That's possible – to reach him, I mean? Or your dictionary, I remember your Grandpa bought you a wonderful edition when you graduated from high school.

Talk about dictionaries, ha! Mr. Softworth even looked like a Roman senator, and acted like one too – you had to see him strolling regally down the corridors back there in my uni, impressively tall & just as impressively bald, an aura of ancientness so sick around him you could stumble upon it if you happened to sprint by. God, yes, this man's speaking the language perfectly, not to mention reading texts and interpreting them with equal ease... could be very helpful when in the right mood.

But, alas, dictionary is not an option, 'cause I lost mine in freshman year and never bothered to buy a new one. (What's one of the best libraries in the world for?!) As for professor Softworth… let's just say that he had ferocious attacks of amnesia when it came to cell-phone and e-mail whenever the calendar hit after-exam epoch. EVERY year it happened exactly so, elder students joke. Probably one day I will find this habit of his rather cute and funny too. Forsitan, good sir. When I am a senior myself.

I shift a little in my chair, trying to look Granny square in the eye like a good and honest girl.

- Ah, can't really reach the man, and I sorta, um, misplaced the book.

- Oh.

It is almost true. As a matter of fact, I did not lose the damn thing, oh no. I _threw_ it in the nearest trash bin as soon as exams were over and done with. After all, there is a vast difference between understanding a number of grammar patterns that are enough to barely pass and being so in love with the language that it surprises you when the United Nations and NATO and EU and a number of others persist to stay – stubborn schoolkids! – Latin-free. Hell, our professor might even dream in Latin, I certainly don't. But crap, I hate lying to my Gran!

She drags me back to the land of the living and ice-cream-eating.

- Susan, probably I can help?

- Nah… – I shake my head. – Hardly, Gran. It looks like a diary crossed with a shopping-list from the nearest farmer's market. Written by a woman. Do you by any chance know Latin of that kind?

She gives me her best Cheshire cat-style grin.

- What if I might? – I push the text across the café table enthusiastically and her grin grows wider. – You know, child, if that afternoon tea I used to shower on my New Hampshire neighbors' firstborn was not wasted, that charming grad-student taught your Granny some classic Latin to return the favor.

Hm, interesting; dear ol' Softs is from New Hampshire too…

- Is it…no… though why not? Listen, Grandma, did this grad-genius last name sound fluffy and cozy to you?

- If you mean soft Susan, then yes. Let me think… it's Softworth – right; that is the fellow's name. Why?

Upon hearing that I feel my own lips starting to grin.

- Oh, nothing, really. – I swallow another bite. – Just wanted to make sure your Latin was in tip-top shape, that's all. He's my Classic Languages professor.

Grandma lets her eyebrows go up.

- Small world, small world indeed… Now, this manuscript, child. – She smiles a bit at my general direction and gently taps faded pages. – Susan, I'd like you to meet Buttercup. This is her very own story, written by the girl herself after happily ever after of The Princess Bride.

Now it's my turn to hide eyebrows in the fringe. Gran smiles again and begins to recite the text from memory as I follow along, a finger pointed into barely-there letters of ages-old love'n'life history.

_…It is very late. A sudden ache somewhere in my lower back wakes me up. The room is the way it is at nights, dark. I can barely make out the mirror on the opposite wall, in its heavy frame. The children are sleeping peacefully in their room next door._ So, they kept busy after all the escape-on-white-horses and I-love-you-forever crap… _Slowly, I inch up so that I am sitting. A smile runs across my lips when I suddenly brush his arm, the pain forgotten, even if for a tiny moment. I know it will return to me, has to, but as my eyes are growing accustomed to the dark, my smile becomes wider. He is there, right next to me. Fast asleep, of course, but if need be, he'll wake up, and drag the doctor out of his warm bed or even the Miracle Max himself all the way up here, or carry me to him – too protective these days… Come to think of it, always were. Since the marriage. Or possibly since way before, when he almost lost me… Either way, there is barely a single day passing by when I don't thank the skies and the plague_ (Eh? Why plague and not pirates, for instance?) _for bringing us together. The moon comes out from the clouds and shines upon my sleeping knight. He is so strong, so wonderfully whole even in his sleep. I wonder for the umpteenth time why I have got such an honour, to be with him, to learn to appreciate how special it is, to be loved by him, a sunray of my…_

Ugh, I had enough. Boooring! Something deep inside whispered quite clearly that I am about to drop my head and zonk out right there on the ages-old stack of parchment or paper or whatever if I don't make my head useful otherwise – by eating and talking. Granny is looking expectantly at her granddaughter anyway. Well, might as well share an opinion or two…

- So, how is it?

- Honestly, Grandma? – She nods eagerly. Well, I must thank every deity there is supposed to be that it is her and not Grandpa sitting across the table. Here it goes, my honest opinion… – You know, Gran, I had an idea that Buttercup's writing can be quite boring. I am surprised she knew how to use a quill anyway, being a peasant girl and all that! But sugary and sleep-inducing? This oh-my-dearest-Westley-hymn all over again; I almost hit the table top snoring at the top of my very own… Oh, to hell with playing nice; that story is total and utter rubbish!

I take a disgruntled and quite childish swig of yet another milkshake, and Gran smiles wickedly at my antics as she sips her Earl Grey. Oh, that's not good. Never was, as long as I can remember, the all-knowing, laughing, wise glance over her tea cup. I probe the grounds, cautiously.

- What's so funny? Something in my hair?

- Nothing, dear. I've just imagined what you'd be talking like when we finish this part of the manuscript.

- Well, did I meet any expectations?

She chuckles, suddenly looking at least fifty –if not more – years younger.

- Of course, child. I acted exactly the same when I translated it for the first time!

- Why am I not surp… Wait, are you telling me you've read that romance crap of God-knows-what century more than once?!

Her eyes are shining with mischief and odd excitement combined.

- Susan, I know that right now you're royally disappointed. But I promise to never bug you, or nag, or otherwise trick you into reading it again, but please turn the page, and read the sentence up to the end – Grandma suddenly leans forward and clasps my shoulder, lightly. – And if your curiosity remains unpicked, so be it.

- If? – She must've sensed the doubt snaking its way into my voice and nods more forcefully, but takes her hand off my shoulder anyway.

- Just read it up to the end, Susan. Please.

I want to feel like arguing, I really do. But… What is there to lose, beside a second or two of my own lifetime? Better read the damn thing and forget about it. It might even get better in the end…a little. Where did I leave off?

_… to learn to appreciate…_

Yeah, right here. Should probably start where the sentence does.

Alrighty… Dear, wonderful professor Softworth, please forgive me for my Latin.

_…I wonder for the umpteenth time why I have got such an honour, to be with him, to learn to appreciate how special it is, to be loved by him, a sunray of my life – even if his armour is not always perfectly shiny, I couldn't care less, for he is my co…cor…_whatever (don't remember this word…probably another fancy way of saying platinum or blond)-_haired knight!_

Surprise, Susan. No miracle found. I sigh and glance up. Gran's eyeing me, all excitement and hope. Damn!

- Oh, don't look at me like that, Grandma… Please? The text's not getting any better than it used to be five minutes or five centuries ago, sorry.

She keeps giving me the look. I pause mid-breath and squint at the sentence in front of me again.

- Wait. Something is not quite what it seems and you want me to figure it out on my own, I get it. Don't tell me…

It looks normal, it smells normal. The whole thing is too sweet and snooze-tempting, yes, but otherwise very much unthreatening. Blah, blah, blah, sickly perfect Westley, blah, blah, blah again… And then it hit me. Buttercup wrote just there in the last line that this guy was not her knight in shiny armor 24/7. Doesn't look Westley to me either, but I am not her! But hey, there must be something else besides the un-perfectness… I know, I feel it! And than I saw just the fact. It was very simple and innocent indeed, but held a promise of dire, unspeakable consequences hidden within. But how subtle! I re-read the line just to make sure. It is there.

I suddenly remembered what that car-something word stands for – the dark-feathered bird of the English Tower! Thank you, professor!

_…I couldn't care less, for he is my raven-haired knight!_

The dude's hair color. But that means…

Gosh, whoever this man next to her in bed was, his name most certainly did not sound close to _anything_ like our dear blond hero's name! I look up, triumphant, winning… All of a sudden Buttercup's writing style stopped irritating my very guts, and the whole tirade of hers got meaning and something that shone through it. Probably there was just one-night-stand type of sex, I reasoned, but a tiny nasty voice down in my mind said probably not that alone – for starters, remember those children she mentions. Though probably there was indeed sex and nothing but, children or no children, just the man happened to be so good at it she remembered him forever, even if she was married to the one and only Westley… Either way, I'll keep reading. Granny looks radiant, and I return the smile.

- You were right. I'm in.

She orders another round of tea, and I read on, pausing now and then to verify the meaning of this or that passage with Gran. The story slowly but steadily absorbs and swallows me whole as the coffee shop moms, kids, and love-struck couples swarm in and out, peacefully buzzing along, and the pink apron darts to our table, her equally pink tray loaded with steaming cups and a jug full of delicious cream...

--

Another author's note: "car-something word" that Susan didn't remember first is _carvis_ (which means raven in Latin, nominative), of course, with an appropriate declension.


End file.
